


A Study in Cell Phones

by vividder



Series: Anomalous Deductions [1]
Category: SCP Foundation, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe-SCP Foundation, Canon Rewrite, Gen, SCP Foundation Site 37
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 12:20:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13880760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vividder/pseuds/vividder
Summary: An AU where Sherlock and John work for the SCP Foundation.  John gets transferred to Site 37, where he meets his new roommate, a self-made detective investigating a series of weird suicides.(A Study in Pink rewrite)





	1. New Site, New Room

“So that’s Site 37 for you.  Or at least, all the areas you’re allowed to access.” Mike said, finishing his tour at the hallway to the staff dormitories.  “Did you get a roommate?”

“Yeah,” John answered, remembering the packet of papers he’d carried around all afternoon.  “Holmes, I think the name was.”

Mike’s eyes widened.  “Sherlock Holmes?”

“That sounds about right.  Do you know him?” John asked warily.

“Only in passing.  Apparently he’s a bloody genius.  But...” Mike seemed to have trouble deciding how to say his next bit.  “Nobody’s been able to stand him as a roommate for longer than three months, and he goes through lab assistants even faster than that.  But that might just be rumors,” the other man added hastily, then shrugged. “There’s a spot open in my room, just in case.”

“Thanks for the warning.” John headed down the hallway, looking for number 221.

 

It didn’t take John long to find the room.  As he rounded the corner, John heard the sound of a violin drifting lazily through the halls, making the place feel more hospitable than it should have.  It seemed loudest in front of his door. John wondered if maybe rooming with Sherlock wouldn’t be as bad as it had initially sounded. He did like the violin, after all.

John slid his ID card into the chip scanner and placed his thumb on the reader by the door.  A moment later, he heard the lock disengage. The violin playing abruptly stopped.

John retrieved his card from the reader and stepped into the cookie-cutter dorm.  Two identical halves greeted him, each with their own bed, closet, chest of drawers, desk, miniature fridge and microwave.  

In the center stood a tall, thin man with black curly hair facing a wire music stand.  He wore slacks and a dress shirt. He turned to face John, and John could almost feel the man’s gaze taking in every part of him.

“You must be Dr. Watson,” Holmes said.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” John answered.  

“Sherlock,” the other man corrected.  “Do you like the violin?”

“Yeah, it’s great.  And just call me John.”  John sat down on the empty bed with the standard-issue bedding.  At the Foundation, no one had many personal belongings. 

“Which task force?” Sherlock asked, sitting on his own bed.

“Excuse me?”

“You were in a task force before being moved into a medical position.  They don’t normally pull people from field duty into research. I suspect that you were injured, but that’s probably on a need-to-know basis.”

“Alpha-1.  That’s all I can tell you,” John said quietly.  He had to be careful talking about his classified operations.  Very few had the clearances to hear about his work with Red Right Hand.  “What do you do around here?”

“Research on chemical anomalies, mostly.” Sherlock loosened his bow and stowed the instrument back in its case.  “From time to time, I get other tasks.”

They lapsed into uncomfortable silence for a few minutes as John searched his area for his few belongings.  His personal items had been shipped from Site 19 ahead of his arrival, but John couldn’t help feeling relieved once they were all accounted for.

 

Later that afternoon, they headed to the cafeteria for a mediocre dinner.  Food at the Foundation sites was decent, but something about it just couldn’t compare to the food outside.  John had been lucky as a task force member. He’d gotten to go offsite often and see the world. Most people had to go through rigorous processing to obtain the same privileges.

John went through the line and got a plate of chicken pot pie, a salad, corn on the cob, a slice of cake, and a bottle of water.  Sherlock just claimed a table.

John looked around, but didn’t see anyone he’d gotten to talk to yet besides Sherlock.  If he had to live with someone so supposedly insufferable, he might as well get to know them first.  Although if his first impression was anything to go by, Sherlock would be a piece of cake compared to sharing quarters with an entire task force.

“Aren’t you eating anything?” he asked.

“I don’t eat in the middle of my projects,” Sherlock responded, staring straightforward.  

“That’s not very healthy,” John pointed out.  “Shouldn’t you always be working on something?”

“Not my research, John.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Side projects.”

John waited for him to elaborate, but Sherlock apparently wasn’t sharing.  “Okay, then.”

John began to eat as more people gradually trickled into the cafeteria.  Nobody else joined their table until a silver-haired man in a suit brought his tray over and sat down.  

John could tell he was high ranking and carrying at least three weapons.  Not the kind of person he thought the lanky, quirky Sherlock would associate with regularly, but John was quickly learning that his first impressions about Sherlock were often wrong.

“I told you,” Sherlock said.  “Where’s this one?”

The man glanced at John.  “Who’s this?”

“He can stay,” Sherlock answered.  “Where is it?”

“Memetics deep storage,” the man allowed, lowering his voice.

“What’s going on?” John asked quietly.  Clearly, this conversation had begun in another time and place.

“Three identical suicides,” Sherlock answered.  “Same chemicals, same dose each time. Lestrade thinks it’s coincidence. Although not anymore, from the looks of things.”

Why Sherlock was involved with this, John didn’t know.  Although suicide wasn’t uncommon among burnt-out, traumatized Foundation employees, he had to agree that three exactly identical deaths within a short interval was a cause for concern.

“So what happened this time?” Sherlock asked, redirecting the conversation back to its original path.  “You wouldn’t have asked for my help if something hadn’t changed.”

“You know how they don’t leave notes?”

“Yeah?”

“This one did.”

“I want to see the evidence.”

Lestrade nodded.  “I’ll meet you in the morgue after I finish eating.  Wait about half an hour, and then come down.”

Sherlock huffed and stood up.  “I might be in late tonight. You don’t need to wait up.”

 

After he finished eating, John went back to his room.  When he got there, he found Sherlock sitting at his desk with his own computer.  “Did Lestrade finish eating yet?”

“I think he’s almost done,” John answered.  “So is this your project?”

“Got it in one.” Sherlock didn’t even look up from his computer.  “You provided medical assistance for a mobile task force.”

“Yes.”  John didn’t know where this was going.

“Seen a lot of injuries and gruesome deaths, then.”

“Yep.”

“Probably also a bit of trouble.”

“That, too.  Enough for a lifetime.”

Sherlock looked up and spun the swivel chair so he faced John.  “Want to see some more?”

John couldn’t help himself.  “Oh, God yes.”


	2. Warning Signs

 

They headed down to the lower levels, using John’s card to get them access to the morgue.  When they arrived in the main area, a woman stopped them from taking more than two steps out of the elevator.  Her uniform bore the nine-tailed fox insignia of task force Epsilon-11. “What are you doing here, Freak?” she asked Sherlock with venom in her tone.

“The Head of Site Security invited me.”

“Why?”

“He wants me to look at a body.  Honestly, Donovan, why else would I be in a morgue?” Sherlock sounded frustrated.

“To fuck a corpse?” she asked sarcastically.

“Yes, well, it’s obvious to anyone that you didn’t spend last night in your own dorm.”

Donovan tired of attacking Sherlock and turned her attentions to John.  “Who’s this?”

“A colleague, Dr. Watson.  Doctor Watson, this is Captain Sally Donovan.  We’re acquaintances,” Sherlock commented coldly.

“How did you get a colleague?  Does your new roomie follow you around like a lost puppy or something?”  She looked at him in mock surprise.

“Come on, John,” Sherlock said, and pushed past her.  John had no choice but to follow. He didn’t believe it was the best move Sherlock could have offered, considering what she just implied about him, but he couldn’t see that conversation coming to a pleasant end otherwise.  They really didn’t like each other.

“The Freak’s incoming,” Donovan said into a radio as they headed toward one of the examination rooms.  Sherlock knocked twice. Lestrade opened up, then closed the door behind himself as he stepped out. 

“Dr. Watson, I need to know who you are before I can let you in there,” Lestrade said.  “Apologies, but procedures must be followed.”

“I have level four security clearance.” John handed over his ID card for Lestrade to examine.  “Former MTF operative, now the new chief of surgery at Site 37,” he explained. 

“He’s with me,” Sherlock grumbled.

Lestrade handed John back his card.  “Security Director Lestrade. It’s nice to meet you, and welcome to the Site,” he said, extending his arm for a handshake, which John reciprocated.  Lestrade had a firm grip.

With that, they went into the examination room.  “You have two minutes,” Lestrade said as John and Sherlock pulled on blue latex gloves.  “The deceased is Jennifer Wilson, an assistant in the digital labs, level 2 security clearance.  We’re running her records now to see if there were any signs leading up to this.”

Sherlock nodded absently as he looked at the body.  He pulled at her clothing and examined her jewelry and the contents of her pockets.  He walked around the examination table and studied the other evidence, too, saying not a word.

“Stop thinking, it’s annoying,” Sherlock barked at them from the corner.

John raised an eyebrow at Lestrade.  The man just shook his head.

Sherlock flitted about for a few more moments before coming to a stop on the other side of the table.  “Got anything?” Lestrade asked.

“Doctor Watson, what do you think?”

“Of what?”  John had no idea what part he even played in this whole thing.

“The body.  You’re a medical doctor, after all.”

“Sherlock, we have a whole team dedicated to looking at those sorts of things on site,” Lestrade pointed out.  

“They don’t talk to me,” Sherlock complained.

“Technically, I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

“You need me,” Sherlock shot back.

“God help me,” Lestrade agreed.  “Dr. Watson, have at it.”

John raised an eyebrow.

“Go ahead, look at the body.  It’s fine,” Lestrade reassured him.

John scanned his eyes over her exposed skin.  No obvious injury, blue tint to fingers and face and pale skin.  Cyanosis--she’d suffered oxygen deprivation. John looked into the woman’s mouth.  On a whim, he bent down to sniff. No alcohol, but the smell of vomit was present. Hm.  The cause of death hadn’t been too hard to figure out. Sherlock had mentioned drugs earlier, hadn’t he?

“She asphyxiated on her own vomit,” he concluded.  “A seizure or some sort of drug would do it, but she wasn’t drunk when she died.”

“Sherlock, your time is almost up,” Lestrade said.  “What have you got?”

“You’ll find she was a frequent transfer, and worked as a digital designer, most likely.  She’s married, but when she’s not with her husband, has a series of one night stands and affairs.  You can tell--all of her jewelry is well cared for, except for her wedding ring.” Sherlock removed the tarnished ring to demonstrate.  “But the inside is clean because she removes it often. Her lovers don’t know she’s married. Her work isn’t hard--and you can tell she does design from her clothes, everything in this outfit had to be meticulously chosen.  So she must remove the ring for something else. Transferring so often helps her hide the multiple affairs from all her lovers and her naive husband.”

Lestrade already had his phone out to take notes.  

“That’s amazing,” John said when Sherlock paused his prattle to take a breath.

“What?” Sherlock asked sharply.

“Sorry, go on.”

“She’s here for a short time because her clothes are rumpled: she must have brought them with her in a bag.  A woman that fashion-conscious wouldn’t want her precious wardrobe to get messy unless it was unavoidable. Do you have her phone?”

“Her phone?” Lestrade asked.

“Yes, her phone.  Have you got it?”   
“She never had a phone, Sherlock.”

Sherlock exhaled in frustration.  “She must have had a phone. A woman with that many affairs wouldn’t risk it going out of sight.  And the note, Rache. Must be Rachel. Since this suicide follows the pattern, I figure the killer didn’t write it.  So why did she use her dying moments to write that on a slip of paper? The answer must be on either her phone or computer, and we can remote into her computer from her phone.”  Sherlock clapped his hands as a smile broke out across his face. “We have a serial killer! And they’ve made their mistake! Find Rachel!” Sherlock exclaimed, then ran out of the room.

 

John wandered out to find Donovan still standing guard in the morgue.  Sherlock was already long gone. John nodded to her as he made his way back towards the elevator.

“Wait a minute,” Donovan said, approaching him.  “You’re actually his latest roommate?”

“Yeah,” John replied.  “Why?”

“Bit of advice, then: Get a new room as soon as you can.”

“He doesn’t seem to be as bad as everyone makes him out to be,” John said.

Donovan looked at John like he had totally missed the point.  “Sherlock has no business getting mixed up in these things. He gets off on all the weird shit and crimes that happen around here, the weirder the better.”  She laughed mirthlessly. “Of course, that doesn’t mean much, considering we all work for the Foundation. But there’s something different about Sherlock. One day, he’s not going to be able to get his rush from watching the bodies fall.  I’m just waiting for the day he snaps and that’s the end of it.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”  John was baffled as to how Donovan had come to that conclusion about Sherlock.  The man didn’t seem like a murderer to him.

“Yeah, but since when has anything else?” Donovan replied.  “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes,” she warned him as she moved on to continue her circuit of the area. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Molly will appear later in the AU!


	3. Preparations

John went up the elevator and began to make his way back towards the cafeteria and the dorms when his phone buzzed.  A text from Sherlock on the internal network.  _ 221\.  Come at once, if convenient. SH _ .

John pocketed the device again.  Five minutes later, another text.   _ If inconvenient, come anyway _ .

John sighed.  He wanted to get around to meeting some of the other people on site and seeing what else the cafeteria had to offer, but fine.  From what he knew about Sherlock so far, he could guess the texts wouldn’t stop until he actually went back there.

_ Could be dangerous _ .

John, in a small act of defiance, went to the cafeteria anyway. He bought a pastry and ate it as he walked (slowly) back to the dorm and unlocked the door.

He found Sherlock laying on his bed, holding his left arm out from his body, clenching and unclenching his fist as he used his other hand to put pressure on his forearm.

Of course, John’s first assumption was intravenous drug use.  “What are you doing?” he asked, freezing in the entryway.

“Nicotine patches.  They help me think,” Sherlock explained, moving his hand to expose the three pale patches adhered to his forearm.  “Can’t smoke down here, unfortunately.”

“I actually think not being able to smoke in an underground facility is a good thing,” John replied.  “So, what did you need me for?”

“You stopped for a pastry,” Sherlock accused John.  “I could have been dying.”

“You wouldn’t have been so cryptic if you were dying,” John pointed out.  “Plus, you could have called the emergency line. And I was hungry.” John sighed.  “Why did you want me?”

“I need your phone.”

John pointed to Sherlock’s own phone, perched precariously on the edge of his mini-fridge.  “You’ve got your own.”

“Yes, but I can’t send the text.  Lestrade might get in trouble if it traces to me.”

John sighed.  “Don’t you dare put my job on the line.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock answered.  “Do you know how to enable the anonymity settings?”

It took John a moment of fiddling, but he eventually managed to toggle the settings so whomever received his message wouldn’t know who sent it.  The anonymity settings weren’t truly anonymous--the Foundation phone records would show that he sent the message--but to find that information would take time and effort.

“Got it.”  John held the phone out in front of Sherlock, who waved him off.

“The paper on my desk has the ID code and message you need to send.  Do that, and quickly.”

John went over to the desk.  In messy handwriting, Sherlock had scrawled

_ 665902881 _

_ Did everything with the memetics go okay?   _

_ Meet me at the unused lab by the armory. _

“You’re a lazy arse,” John said as he typed.

“Did you send it?” 

John held his finger above the button.  “Who am I texting?”

Sherlock stood up from the bed and approached his desk.  “Trust me, John. This is the only way. I believe it will work.”

“Fine.  Be cryptic again.” John rolled his eyes and sent the text.  What the hell. Add to the list of things to know about Sherlock Holmes: he is a stubborn git.  Maybe that’s what drove all his other roommates up the wall.

A second later, John’s phone began to ring.  The caller ID said that the call had come from another anonymized device.  John looked at Sherlock, who gestured for him to cancel the call. John did so.

“If you have a voice mail set up, that could ruin everything,” Sherlock admonished him.

“Sorry that I try to be professional,” John shot back.  “But this is my phone and my job, Sherlock. I want to know what this is about.”

“She didn’t have her phone.  So where is it? If the murderer just dumped it, you wouldn’t get a response--nobody would care.  But if he still has it, and he just got a text from a dead woman,” Sherlock smiled unnervingly. “Well, you’d panic too, wouldn’t you?”  He began to pace the length of their tiny room.

“Why are you telling me this instead of Lestrade?” John had to turn as he talked to keep up with Sherlock as he walked from one end of the room to the other.

“Four people are dead.  There isn’t time!” Sherlock insisted, darting out the door.

John felt as if he had no choice but to follow.

 

Sherlock, to John’s surprise, only lead him to the commissary, where he walked confidently to the register and purchased three beers.  He sat down at a table in the back corner of the cafeteria and John, who had already sat down, was forced to move. Sherlock pushed a beer across the table towards him.

“So, why is there time to drink beer if there isn’t time to inform security?” John asked pointedly.  He was starting to become frustrated with getting dragged all around creation for no obvious reason. 

“It’s part of the plan,” Sherlock whispered.  “Our killer encounters unsuspecting people and lures them away before killing them.  I’ve set up the perfect scenario. My projects aren’t exactly secret, so I’d be a danger to them.  They’re more likely to believe I’ll give into their ruse if I already look like I’ve let my guard down, hence the booze.”  Sherlock twisted off the cap of one bottle of cheap beer and took a drink.

“If I don’t return here in, say, fifteen minutes, get Lestrade and get to that lab.  It’s got one-way glass on the far wall, so go the long way around. Lestrade will know what that means.”

“Fifteen minutes is still plenty of time to murder you if he decides to adopt a more dangerous tactic,” John argued.  “You even said that knowing who the criminal is puts you in more-than-average danger.”

“I’d know how to find them.  There’s a difference.”

John rolled his eyes and drank his own beer.  “Whatever.”

“I’m going to pretend to be drunk now.  You have to act disgusted and push me away or something, then go about your business.  Just be near here in fifteen minutes,” Sherlock instructed him.

John nodded in understanding.  

Sherlock finished the first beer, then took the top off the second one and took a large gulp.  He splashed the rest on his face and the front of his shirt. A happy-go-lucky smile and some clumsy mannerisms completed the disguise.

John, who had seen espionage experts switch identities within mere minutes, had to admit it wasn’t bad for such a haphazard effort.  “How do I look?” Sherlock slurred, his voice uncomfortably loud.

“Get out.  You’re drunk,” John shot back, much more quietly.  He punched Sherlock lightly on the shoulder, and the other man reacted with an exaggerated lean.  “Go on, get.”

Sherlock fumbled with his chair as he pushed it away from the table and walked unsteadily towards the door, earning the stares and glares of the other patrons.

John watched him go, sighed, and went to get some napkins to clean up the spilled beer.


	4. Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is Sherlock's POV of the events. The next will be John's.

Sherlock staggered through the hallways, choosing directions at random and doing his best to appear sloppy drunk to anyone he crossed.  Most didn’t seem impressed, or like they cared. Sherlock’s lack of close friends or acquaintances around the site helped with that. This was exactly the reaction he’d wanted.  As long as the killer thought he was totally alone, Sherlock had a better chance of being taken and placed into a position where he would need to kill himself. 

Eventually, a janitor came up behind Sherlock, and tapped his shoulder.  “Let me get you back to your dorm,” he said. Sherlock scanned him quickly, noting his age, marital status, and chronic pain, before agreeing.

“Yeah, thanks,” he slurred, sidling up to the janitor and leaning on the shorter man.  The janitor grumbled, but managed to get Sherlock and his cart arranged just right so he could get on his way.

To Sherlock’s satisfaction, they started to head away from the dorms and through the route that went near the armory.  Sherlock let the man walk with him for a few minute until they had arrived in the hallway with the labs.

“This isn’t the dorms,” he muttered groggily.

“I’ve just gotta stop in here for a minute.” He dragged Sherlock with him into the lab.  Sherlock resisted slightly to keep up his drunk persona, but the man managed to get him inside the lab.  Sherlock took a seat at one of the long lab tables, trying to appear as if he’d started sulking.

He heard the lock click behind him, and the janitor’s footsteps move across the room, to the stool across from where Sherlock sat.

“We both know you’re not drunk, Holmes,” the janitor said.

“You’re the murderer.” With barely a blink, Sherlock’s disguise melted away.  

The grey-haired janitor nodded in satisfaction.  “Nobody ever looks at the janitors ‘round here. You’re all so self-important, caught up in your research and your security.  It’s the perfect way to move about here undetected, just like a serial killer would need to.”

“Is this a confession?”

The cabbie smiled like the cat that captured the canary.  “Yes, I suppose so. And if you were to call Security right now, I wouldn’t even fight you.  But you won’t do that, Mr. Holmes. I’ve been watching you for too long. You’ll want to know how I did it, what I said to them.”  The janitor lowered his voice and leaned in. “But you won’t get to know if you turn me in.”

Sherlock knew exactly what the janitor was waiting for.  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and set it on the table, sliding it away.  “So, how did you do it?” he asked conversationally. “What does a man say to get another man to kill himself?”

The janitor quickly checked his phone to ensure it wasn’t recording.  Sherlock would have done the same thing.

“First, I tell them that we’re going to play a game.  Then, I put these on the table.” The janitor reached into his pocket and pulled out two vials, each containing a large, unmarked, red and white pill.  He set them on the table in front of Sherlock. “Take a look. You’ll find that they’re identical in every way.”

Sherlock figured that the janitor had to be telling the truth, but picked up each vial and gave its contents a cursory glance anyway.  When he placed the second vial back on the table, the janitor continued.

“There’s a good bottle and a bad bottle.  If you get good, you win; if you get bad, you die.  But here is where it gets fun: I take the pills in the other bottle.  I’ve got a fifty-fifty shot at this game too. And suddenly, the stakes have been raised.”  He smiled again. If his stool had a back, Sherlock was certain he’d be leaning against it.

“I choose the bottle?”

“Of course.  It wouldn’t be any fun otherwise.”

Sherlock’s thoughts began to swirl in his head and spill out of his mouth, as they were wont to do.  “You give them a choice.”

“And now I’m giving you one,” the janitor said with a smile.  “Think of it as chess with one move. And this....” The janitor slid the vial on his left forward, “is the move.  Make your choice, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock knew, at that moment, that he was in his element and he couldn’t keep the smile off of his face.  Too unstable to work internal security or affairs, and at the moment, it damn showed. For a second, he met the janitor’s eyes and the adrenaline rush from the puzzle only increased as his mind and body fully realized the stakes.

“Was it a bluff?  Double bluff? Or could it even be a triple bluff?”

Sherlock shrugged.  “Still just chance. There’s still two bottles.”

“I’ve won four times now.  The probability of that happening is so small that it’s not just chance.”  The janitor gave his own shrug. “I know how people think. I know, no one ever thinks that a janitor might be smart, but I know people.  I can read ‘em real good. What I’m doing isn’t just luck. And what I’ve figured out, is that everyone’s stupid. Even you’re stupid, in the end.  I don’t mean to insult you, Mr. Holmes, but it’s the truth.”

Sherlock had already assumed that the janitor was smarter than he’d initially lead people to believe.  And in the end, his insult wouldn’t mean anything, especially if Sherlock won this game. “Even a blind cat catches the mouse sometimes.  But why,” Sherlock said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table, “would a genius risk his own life to kill four strangers? Seems like a waste of time to me.”   
The janitor tapped the table.  “Your move. There’s no point to dragging this out.”

“You’ve got shaving foam behind your left ear--in fact, you normally have shaving foam behind that ear, because you’ve got the marks from where it’s happened before.  Therefore, you have a dorm to yourself and you’re not close with anyone else on the site, or they would have pointed it out to you. Your encounters with your victims are probably the longest non-work-related social interactions you have.  But that’s too simple. Killing because you’re lonely is counterintuitive. Thank god you’re not doing that, otherwise I’d have to call you insane as well. But your clothes are at least two years old--they performed minor upgrades to the tailoring about a year ago, and those don’t have the same fit as the new items.  Yet you’ve kept them clean even though you could requisition clothing more often than just about anyone else here, considering what you have to deal with. You’re in a holding pattern, just going from day to day. So why go on a killing spree now?” Sherlock paused for effect. The janitor didn’t yet see where he was going.  But now that Sherlock had looked, really looked, it stood out to him clear as daylight. “How long have you known?”

“Known what?”

Sherlock’s smile dimmed.  “That you’re not long for this earth.”

The janitor shook his head.  “Two years. Two years of appeals to get a dose of 500, but I’m not essential personnel and they’ve only got 47 left.  They wait to see me die, but I’ve outlived four people. Might be five, soon. Play my game, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock stood and brushed invisible dust off his slacks.  “This was all very interesting, Mr...”

“Hope.”

“Mr. Hope.  Unfortunately, my curiosity’s been satisfied and there’s nothing to stop me from walking out of here.  I suppose we’ll meet again at the tribunal, if you live to see it.” Sherlock buttoned his blazer and turned around, heading for the door across from the two-way mirror.

“Wait,” Hope said from behind him, and Sherlock turned around.  “I want to know which bottle you’d choose. If you would be the one to win the game.”

Oh, why not.  Sherlock wanted to know if he’d won too.  He turned and stepped back towards the table.  Then he picked up one of the vials.


	5. Gunshot

John waited in the cafeteria for fifteen minutes before standing and leaving.

Sherlock had told him to go to Lestrade, so John headed down to the security office.  Donovan was the only one in, and she came out of her cubicle to meet him at the front desk.  He tried to explain Sherlock’s plan to her without it sounding completely foolish, and from her expression, he wasn’t sure that it had worked.

“Look, Dr. Watson, Sherlock runs off on these chases all the time.  No offense, but he probably forgot you were even waiting for him. He becomes absorbed in these investigations until he forgets to eat and sleep, and then he collapses somewhere.  I’ll let Lestrade know Sherlock sent for him and tell the patrols to look out for him. It’s probably best for everyone if you just go back to your own room and settle in.” Throughout her spiel, Donovan had worn a condescending smile, like John was a small child making up stories for attention.  It got on his nerves to no end. John stalked out in frustration.

If they weren’t going to help him, he would do this on his own.

John stopped back at his dorm to get his handgun.  He’d been one of the top marksmen in Red Right Hand.  If worse came to worst, this might be his best chance at getting them both out safely.

John tried to make his way to the lab by the armory without looking suspicious.  Suspicious people were not treated well at the Foundation. Unfortunately, asking for directions was considered suspicious.

Finally, John managed to figure out how to get near the armory. From there, maps on the walls helped John to figure out a route to the area behind the one-way mirror.

Creeping slowly around the corner, John saw Sherlock go to pick up one of the two vials with the pills.  At that moment, John knew he had arrived just in time.

Moving carefully and angling himself so that the bullet wouldn’t hit Sherlock, John got into position and aimed, flicking off the safety.

He exhaled and fired.

 

The shot caught Sherlock off guard.  A single bullet through the one-way glass, angled carefully.  This was someone who knew how to shoot a target.

Hope fell to the ground, dead almost instantly.  The bullet tore through him and into the far wall.  Sherlock figured the bullet had either struck the heart or the trauma had stressed his body to the breaking point.  

Instinctively, Sherlock sheltered himself underneath a table.  But no more shots rang out.


	6. A Brand New Day

After that, things moved very quickly.  One of the guards heard the shot and put the site on alert.  Security forces, including a tired Lestrade and a frustrated Donovan, marshalled to the area, along with medical and containment personnel.

Sherlock and John were secured and rushed to an interview area, where they gave testimony to Lestrade and a psychologist with a recording device.  Both would later have to stand and give testimony before a tribunal, but neither would face immediate punishment. That, on its own, was a minor miracle even if they hadn’t technically done anything wrong.  Once again, John had to admit how suspicious his situation had looked from the outside.

It was early the next morning when medical and security personnel decided they could go back to their dorms.  Before they left, Lestrade wearily informed them that Rachel was the name of her recently-deceased daughter. A red herring.  Sherlock spent most of the walk back muttering curses under his breath about having fallen for something so stupid.

“Good shot,” Sherlock said, once they’d gotten into their room and the door had closed behind them.

“Yeah, well, you don’t get into Apha-1 if you aren’t,” John answered.   “I’m not nearly as good as I was before my injury, though.”

“I know. I noticed your shoulder while you were going through your belongings earlier.”  Sherlock paused. “Are you okay?” The words sounded wrong coming out of his mouth.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You have just killed a man,” Sherlock pointed out, reclining on his bed.  “That tends to shake people up.”

“Yeah, well, you just handed two potential vials of poison and were told to consume one, that also shakes people up.”

“I wasn’t actually going to take it.  I knew you would get Lestrade, and failing that, would have another plan.”

“By the way, your plan was absolute bollocks in the first place.  Just thought I’d let you know.”

 

The next morning, John got up early and checked his email.  Interestingly enough, by order of the Overseers, their tribunal had been cancelled and they had been cleared of all charges.

“Did you see this?” John asked Sherlock, as soon as the other man arrived back from the showers.

“What?  The email?  Oh, yeah. I figured that would happen.”  Sherlock moved to his closet to finish getting ready for the day.

“The Overseers don’t just order tribunals cancelled.”

Sherlock shrugged as he put on his tie.  “Sometimes they do.”

_ Well, at least Site 37 isn’t going to be boring _ , John thought as he locked his computer and stood up to begin getting ready for the new day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it! Ideas for this AU would be great; I really enjoy writing the boys in the SCP universe.
> 
> Massive thanks goes out to Ariane DeVere, whose transcripts helped make this story what it was!

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I don't own any of this.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the rest of the fic! Comments, kudos, and constructive criticism are always welcome!


End file.
